harbor at 0130. That way she’d be in by 0245—thirty minutes before the next satellite would pass overhead.
That was how they had landed the Russian weapons system in total secrecy when it arrived in March. The freighter had waited in the strait, right off the eastern tip of the Island of Qeshm, then run in fast across the shallows, right between satellite passes.
Admiral Badr was amused at the success of the operation, but seethed inwardly at the humiliating fact that he and his Navy had to behave in this way because of the Great Satan. It was, he said, unconscionable that a foreign nation should subjugate the ancient rights of Iran to defend herself in any way she so wished.
But all was well. One complete Russian Grumble missile system was safely installed in the workshop area at the deep-set end of the dry dock; the other three were being set up as part of the Naval air defense system. The new dock’s cranes were in place, as were the long galleries that would enable engineers easy access to the submarine. High, heavy-load-lifting apparatus crisscrossed the upper airspace right below the thick concrete ceiling. There were 50 guards on duty outside night and day. The barbed wire was in closer. And there was a second notice board erected right outside. It read, like the one near the main gate:
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.
INTRUDERS WILL BE SHOT ON SIGHT.
Admiral Badr’s missile engineers had checked the system right through and, as far as they could tell, it was flawlessly constructed. It was brand-new, tried and tested over many months by the Russians in the Black Sea in their 10,000-ton guided-missile cruiser
The Russian freighter had delivered a stockpile of 96 weapons, which ought to be ample for their purposes, since Commander Adnam would require only six. And the Iranian admiral looked forward to the Mission of Justice with great anticipation.
At 013 °Commander Adnam issued the orders to surface and head up to Bandar Abbas at 12 knots on course three-three-eight.
And with that the ex — Royal Navy submarine came barreling out of the ocean, shaking the blue water from her decks in a cloud of white spray, the batteries driving her forward on her single shaft, the fastest she had moved since leaving Plymouth sixty-eight days previously.
Ben Adnam and his navigation officer, Lieutenant Commander Rajavi, were on the bridge as they raced across the bay, the hot night air in their faces. Up ahead they could already see the lights from the Iranian Naval station, and soon they could spot the green light high on the right-hand wall of the harbor. The CO ordered a reduction in speed just outside the entrance, and at 0245
They made the hard 90-degree turn to the right, at the end of the harbor wall, and two small tugs maneuvered the 230-foot hull toward the dry dock. Ben Adnam stayed on the bridge, checking the tugs. At 0256 they slid into the new dock, way in, safely away from the vigilant photographer that would drift silently past, in nineteen minutes, miles above. The massive steel double doors were now closed across the entrance to shield the lights inside, where a small team of Navy personnel were waiting to welcome
Ben Adnam walked across the gangplank onto dry land for the first time in four months. Admiral Badr was waiting, and the two men embraced, kissing on both cheeks several times in the old Muslim way.
“How are you, Ben?” asked the Iranian submarine chief.
“I’m tired,” he replied. “It’s been a long haul.”
The admiral led him outside through a small side door to a waiting staff car, and they drove to his house. The journey was only six minutes, but the commander was asleep by the time they arrived. Admiral Badr awakened him and carried his sea bag past the six guards patrolling outside. Once inside, there were four young Iranian men to assist him.
They removed his Brazilian uniform, undershorts, and socks, the only kind of clothes he had worn since March 29, and carefully placed his knife on the table. Then they led him to a hot bath full of exotic restorative oils. Ben just managed to wash himself with a bar of jasmine soap, but he fell asleep three times in the bright steamy bathroom. Two of the servants shaved the rough dark stubble from his face. Finally, they just let the water out and helped him to his feet, drying him off with big, soft, orange towels. Then they sprayed him with scented water, dusted him with jasmine talcum powder, and helped him into a pressed white-cotton robe.
Ben Adnam fell into bed in the large air-conditioned room, where he slept for thirty hours, guarded like a pasha, protected like Fort Knox.
When the submarine commander finally surfaced it was 1000 on June 9. Admiral Badr had issued orders he was to be informed as soon as Ben returned from the undead. Shaved and sharp now, he was ready to come out at the bell, and he greeted Mohammed Badr in their private dining room, which was situated in Ben’s house.
“We followed much of your progress through the English newspapers,” he said. “Benjamin, you may leave no footprints, but you are very adroit at causing chaos.”
“I hope so, sir. By the way, under the terms of our agreement I am now owed $750,000, which I shall require before we move further.”
“I am aware of that. The wire transfer was made yesterday morning to your numbered account in Switzerland. I have here the document of confirmation, signed by the bank. You are at liberty to check with your own bank now if you wish, on that telephone, to ensure I am telling the truth.”
“That will not be necessary, Admiral,” replied the commander, nodding. “And I thank you for your meticulousness and punctuality.”
“As indeed we thank you, Benjamin,” smiled Mohammed Badr. “Any problems with the boat? All of our engineers report her in excellent shape. Just routine maintenance, minor leak in the seal around the shaft. She’s electronically perfect as far as we can tell.”
“She ran fine all the way. The operation was conducted with the utmost professionalism. I expect the Royal Navy was quite confused by the entire thing.”
“They have not said so, Ben. Indeed, the search goes on in the Channel. But I hear some rumblings that senior officers are beginning to wonder if she is there at all. However, nothing has been said publicly.”
“No, they won’t do that.”
“Ben, what I really want to discuss with you is the Russian missile system. It’s very large and very complicated to fit on a submarine. We could be refitting for a year.”
“Look, Admiral. If we were trying to fit a medium-range SAM system for use against military aircraft, you’d be absolutely correct. Because we’d need large complicated radar and control systems to cope with military aircraft, trying to evade, ducking and diving, using amazing decoys and jammers. But we’re not doing that. We’re dumbing down a very sophisticated system…we can actually bolt the parts we need onto the submarine, right up on the casing behind the fin. Our targets are much simpler, highly predictable, with steady course, speed, and height. No defensive systems.
“We will make one modification as I mentioned before, to ensure simple, active radar homing…just enough to allow front-lobe approach to the target. We can’t rely, for instance, on infrared, rear-lobe homing. This weapon has to go to the height we tell it, then turn to meet its target head-on. Then it must acquire the target with its own radar homing system…then lock on and hit, at a closing speed of perhaps Mach-4.”
“Mmmmm. Still, I’ve never seen so many radar systems as these.”
“But we don’t need them on the submarine. Those are intended to give the weapon considerable guidance- update information from its surface firing platform while it is in mid-flight. I intend to feed it all the information it needs to find its target before it’s fired. I’m after a sitting duck, not a swerving teal. We’re going to mount our missile launcher in a specially constructed pressure-tight box, and bolt it onto the rear end of the fin. The submarine’s regular radar will have to be tweaked up for long-range aircraft detection. And we need it to provide
